Friday

Another hot day is in the offing - so it's a good day to dispense with wearing jeans to work. Whenever I might moan about my job in any way, i should remember how lucky I am to have a "proper" job where I'm allowed to where whatever the hell I like to the office. I pity the guys who have to put suits on before squeezing onto the tube, or heavy uniforms or leather motorcycle jackets and helmets. I, on the other hand, cruise up to work in shorts, t-shirt and trainers and am allowed to make myself as comfortable as possible before getting down to work. That's a very nice thing - though I'm always reminded of my mother telling me repeatedly when I was a scruffy teenager "one day, you'll have to dress smart." Hasn't happened yet, has it mum?!

I get home from work in the evening and find that, as K has a gig to go to tonight and various other friends have dates and prior engagements, I'm at a bit of a loose end on a beautiful Friday night. This is not the sort of night I want to sit in watching TV - but nor, I suppose, is it the sort of night I want to spend indoors in a central London pub or gig venue.

In the event I send out a few plaintive texts and find out that Mike is having post-work drinks in Soho, so I make plans to head there and crash his particular party. Standing on Wardour Street outside The George, I meet a couple of the staff of Mike's magazine and we chat pleasantly about the usual guff over a couple of rounds of Kronenbourgs. The plan, at one point, becomes to head to the Big Red - but instead hunger takes over and I decide to head home for a spicy pasta dish at around 10.30, really rather merry. I'm in bed long before K gets back, managing to have made even a quiet evening out of a nice Friday night without plans.